


extra credit

by rosebarsoap



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22257772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebarsoap/pseuds/rosebarsoap
Summary: commission for Hanako_Cinnamon, who asked for a continuation for chapter four of "on the tip of my tongue"! thank you again! :)(no pronouns/parts described nsfw with ooh professor pines ooh)
Relationships: Ford Pines/Reader, Reader - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	extra credit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hanako_Cinnamon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanako_Cinnamon/gifts).



_“Mm, call me all the pet names you want…_ Professor.”

He looks down at you. You, with his fingers intertwined with yours to pin you against the wall and he can see, if he squints, his reflection in your blown-out pupils. Hair mussed, collar askew, shirt half unbuttoned, tie undone and lopsided, threatening to slide to the floor if he shrugs his shoulders. You’re close enough that he gently touches your foreheads together, maintaining eye contact by some sort of miracle. If he looks a mess— and he’s fairly certain he’s _never_ looked this unkempt in his _life_ — then you’re significantly worse for wear in all the same ways. Your chest rises and falls with each heavy breath and he feels each one, attention flitting between that, your proximity to him, his leg between both of yours, the slight pink flush of your cheeks (cute), how your tongue licks a slow line across your bottom lip as you stare at him (cute but in a way that makes his slacks feel tight). You grin, taking that very bottom lip between your teeth and making Ford’s job (and something else) significantly harder than it already is. He’s trying very hard to ignore that “something else”. But the world decided to punish him today, giving him a you that stumbled into his apartment, made yourself at home, _kissed him,_ and had the _gall_ to look like _that_ and call him _“Professor”_. Ford Pines, indeed a professor, never had the slightest inkling that he’d be “into that”, but by god, he is.

Or maybe he’s just into you. It’s hard to tell.

Before he gets another second to overthink he kisses you again, his grip on your hands loosening and you slide them free, winding your arms around his neck. Ford’s attempt to ignore said “something else” fizzles out when you grind against his thigh and he gasps into your mouth, echoing your own, but you don’t let him stay flustered for long because you do it _again_ and take advantage of his shock to nudge his head up, devoting your attention to his neck. Ford allows his hands to wander just a _little_ bit as they come down from the wall and land on your hips, three fingers on the waistband of your jeans and the other three on the scandalous strip of skin exposed from your ridden-up shirt. His hands are cold and your waist is warm; the sudden change in temperature makes you shiver. His breath hitches when you dot lazy kisses over his neck as your free hand fumbles with the other buttons of his shirt. In your current state, it’s not going super great.

“Here, let me. Ah, actually— how are you so warm? Wait, silly question.” Ford takes you by the shoulders and gently pushes you back against the wall, leaning back himself so he can get easier access. He goes to unbutton the rest of his shirt but stops when he hears you start giggling again, followed by an almost unfairly adorable hiccup, and he goes to chastise how much you drank when he remembers that you’re _drunk_. Very drunk, if your bleary eyes have anything to say about it. Ford drops his hands to his sides and sighs, a cold wash of guilt scrubbing his thoughts clean. 

He can’t do this. As much as he wants to, he can’t. Not like this. 

It’s no secret that he cares deeply for you. Every time you came to his office hours for help with an assignment— he teaches the core math class that every student has to take at some point, regardless of major— his stomach got all a-flutter at the thought of sitting near you and helping you, watching as the wheels turned in your head, how your concentrated expression was so oddly endearing. And then, of course, he’d scold himself for thinking that way about a _student._ An upperclassman finishing your last semester, but still a _student_. He knew you were far out of his league; there was no way you’d look at your professor like he looks at you.

Though, if tonight counts as proof, perhaps you do. You’re no longer his student (or a student, for that matter), and he hates to jump at the chance he now gets to properly court you, but… To be fair, _you_ started it. And Ford will finish it.

“Now I hate to ruin the, ah, the mood here, but I think you need rest.” 

You start to protest, snaking your arm around his middle to pull him close again, but a yawn rudely cuts through your words and proves Ford’s point. He smiles and helps you stand up straight after being rather attached to his hallway wall and supports your weight, heading towards his bedroom, where he flips on his bedside table lamp as you flop face-first into his absurdly comfortable mattress. You make a noise between a snore and a groan as Ford pulls you onto your side, tucking you in like the good Ford he is.

“Ah, I’ll be back in a moment. Something tells me you’ll thank me in the morning for this.” 

Ford leaves the room and heads to the kitchen, pouring you a glass of water and taking some medicine from his kitchen cupboard for your inevitably miserable self in the morning, before he comes back into the bedroom… to find you asleep. He chuckles to himself, placing the glass and the meds on the bedside table, going to turn off the lamp— but something makes him pause. He looks down at you, passed out on (his side of) his bed, mouth slightly open, red flush slowly fading from your face, and he smiles. Then quickly shakes his head because _no,_ he can open that can of worms in the morning after you remember what all happened. 

He still kisses your forehead before he turns off the lights, though. He can’t resist.

— — — — —

This isn’t your bed. And as much as you’d love to say this _isn’t_ your splitting headache, the throbbing behind your eyes begs to differ.

It takes you a good while to properly rouse yourself, fumbling in unknown sheets with the sun peeking through the blinds at a new angle. You’ve heard about this, this… waking up in someone else’s bed without recollection of how, why, or when you got there. Another question is who: whose bed you landed in, who brought you here, who this who _is,_ for that matter. You sit up to take a cursory look around the room and find a few framed certificates, a faded picture of a coastline with a boat silhouetted against it, and two books on the bedside table; one of which, you find when you pick it up, is titled _Your Friend the Mothman_.

Shit, you’re at Ford’s house. _Professor Pines’s_ house.

Now that you can see a little clearer after rubbing sleep from your eyes you’re certain: the certificates all have his name on them, there’s his briefcase bag that he brings to class, there’s the tie over the end of the bed that he wore yesterday—

Yesterday.

_“I want you to… I want you to touch me.”_

It comes back to you slowly. You get tidbits of what happened and a hot flush of embarrassment follows suit.

_“I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”_

You groan a drawn-out _“Noooooooo”_ and fall back onto the bed, hands shielding your face from any further mortification you’re going to put yourself through. If last night is anything to go off of, there’s probably more to explore when you find Ford. 

You shake your head ( _ow,_ bad decision with that headache) and swing your legs over the side of the bed to get to your feet. Here’s the game plan: find your shoes, find any leftover belongings, call a taxi home, move to another country, change your name, never talk to Ford again. Got it.

Before you move you clock the glass of water on his bedside table, as well as two small, white pills. Headache meds. You smile despite yourself, quickly taking the medicine and slinging back water like your life depends on it. Now it’s time to enact your escape plan. 

You walk out into the living room and find your shoes by the door, neat and thankfully together. Right, you remember now— Ford tidied them up when you kicked them off last night. Tiptoeing through the hallway (the wall you pressed Ford against seems to stare at you in disdain as you pass), you put them on in the most stealthy way you can before looking around for your keys. Nowhere in sight, of course. Maybe you threw them down the hall like your shoes? There’s a jingle from the other end of the room.

“Looking for these?”

Ford holds your keys out in front of him, a brow raised as he looks at you in question. Your stomach drops. With a quiet sigh, you say yes and ask for them back. Ford hesitates; you see him swallow and his free hand clench into a fist at his side. 

“I, ah— I’ll give them to you. Obviously. After you answer some questions for me. Namely about last night.”

The face you pull makes Ford chuckle before he remembers the reason for it. Even from across the room, you see him flush pink before he stares down at his shoes. 

“You were, um, fairly intoxicated, so I’m not sure if you remember a lot of what happened—”

Oh, you do. He’s still wearing half of his outfit from yesterday, like you are; his shirt’s half unbuttoned, leaving a small window of chest and neck that you remember licking a stripe across last night. Pajama pants replaced the slacks at some point after you passed out.

“But… I, um, I wanted to know… Hm, I didn’t think that this would be so hard,” he mumbles quietly, but loud enough for you to hear. It occurs to you that this isn’t the reaction you were expecting when you came out of his room this morning— he’s not angry, but rather… nervous? You ask him to keep going, tell him it’s alright. May as well get it over with. Ford sighs and rubs the back of his neck, slowly lifting his head to meet your eye.

“Well… Were the events of last night, ah, just an effect of the alcohol? Or do you… Do you feel… that way about me?”

That’s not the restraining order you were bracing yourself for.

You’re silent for a long while, which Ford takes as a chance to fill the silence with “I, uh, I understand that it might be an odd question, but, um, I wanted to figure out what to _do,_ as you were my student, but now you’re not, and I take that with this long silence that—”

Yes, you do feel that way. About him, you clarify, pressing your lips together as soon as the confession escapes them. Ford skids to a halt in his stammerings, staring at you slack-jawed.

“You… do? You do. Oh. _Oh."_

You have for a while, you admit as you walk closer. Figuring that he wouldn’t feel like that for his student, you didn’t act on anything. Ford swallows, looking down at the now much smaller amount of space between you, then looks back at you with wide-eyes. You wait for his reaction, taking _his_ long silence as him figuring out how to politely let you down from your— your _immature lusting._ Not that you’d call it that, but you can practically hear the words rolling off his tongue. 

“Well, ah. That puts last night into a much clearer perspective,” Ford says, tugging at his collar. “By the by, if you remember… You asked last night for a, um, a teacher…”

You feel your eyebrows raise so high they almost bounce off your forehead. Ford looks _mortified._

“I was wondering if, um, if you still needed that help, you see. You asked—”

You asked him to teach you how to be sober again. Recalling the line word for word, your quiet repetition echoes Ford’s, and his gaze drills a hole into your forehead. You know you forgot to say the last part. He knows you forgot to say the last part. It’s saying it that makes you wonder what happens next: he knows how you feel, but you’re not sure about him yet. If this exchange is anything to go off of, you have an inkling of what’s going through his mind.

Pulling your head up to look him square in the face, you fix him with as much of a smolder that you can muster before you step forward once more, gently taking his hand in yours and squeezing it, hoping it relays the message of “if you want me to stop then push me away”. But he doesn’t make a move. You press closer in, slow and steady to give him room to flee if needed, until you’re a breath apart. It’s only when you murmur _Professor_ against his lips that Ford shows any sort of reaction— if you can call surging forward and kissing you anything other than a reaction.

It’s like that very word snapped the final thread of Ford’s resistance. He winds an arm around your waist and pulls you to him, and you respond with a hand at his cheek as the other goes for a wander to the remaining buttons still closed on his shirt. It starts to feel familiar to last night, but no drink addles your fingers this time around; you undo them all with one hand and drag your fingertips up his chest, applying the smallest pressure with your nails to make him almost melt against you. He pulls away for just a moment to make sure you don’t trip over your own feet as he pushes you back to that same hallway wall, closing you in with his hands on the wall at either side of your head. Ford presses his thigh up and between yours, the sudden pressure making you whimper, your breath hot against his collar. He laughs, low and soft, and you feel the vibration under your palms. You expect his confidence to falter, as he did last night, but with the knowledge that yes, you do feel the same as he does, Ford takes the hem of your shirt between his fingers and nods at you for permission. Which, of course, you give. 

Your shirt soon finds company with his as both get thrown over the back of the sofa. Ford pauses, seems to take stock of the situation, and then turns back to you— promptly realizing that hey, you’re topless, and his gaze shoots ceiling-ward as his face floods red. 

“We should, er, bed. Go to bed. I mean—”

You take his head in your hands and turn him to look at you, even if it’s just as nerve-wracking for you as it is for him. Telling him that you know what he means comes out in one breath, followed by a sharp inhale to try and swallow your anxiety over… This.

Bed. Yes. Good idea, you agree, and Ford wastes no time in taking your hand and dragging you back to his bedroom.

You sit back on the bed as he hovers at the edge, nervous, and when you reach out a hand he hesitates to take it. It’s alright, you tell him, closing his fingers in yours. It’s just you and him, no one else. He nods. You tug him onto the bed and he manages to catch himself with his other hand before he squashes you. Ford laughs, fixes his crooked glasses, and looks down at you; you don’t notice that his expression turns soft as you laugh, eyes closed. It takes him a second to realize you’re staring at him with a raised brow, asking if something’s up.

“Oh! Um, no. Just distracted, is all.”

Distracted by what? Ford smiles, leans on his elbow.

“You, of course.”

He leans down and kisses you, stopping any sort of embarrassed protest from leaving your mind as he promptly distracts it. His hand skims down your side and to the front of your pants, fiddling awkwardly with them in an attempt at smooth operator-ness, but he gives up as you gently push his hand away and undo them yourself. He stands back up to help you pull them off and you sit up, finding yourself greeted by a rather telling tent in the front of his striped pajama pants. Ford swallows as he follows your gaze, face flushed, and he only gets redder when you tug said pants down to pool at his ankles. Seems he forgot he went commando. With his and your pants out of the way, you scoot to the edge of the bed and lean back on your palms. Well?

“I, er… How do you want to…?”

Ford looks delightfully awkward, so you take charge. From your place at the end of the bed you hook a leg over his hip and make him take a step forward, where you wrap a hand around his dick and guide it (and him) into you. You press your lips together to try and stifle the noise that threatens to come out, but Ford’s shuddery groan probably would’ve drowned you out regardless. It surprises both of you, but Ford’s a man on a mission now that the awkward part’s out of the way— his hands grip your hips and he starts moving, instinctual, almost, and fast enough to make your attempts at quieting yourself disappear because _shit,_ he’s pretty good at this. You want to make a crass joke about how one of his twelve doctorates must be in sex but you’re kinda distracted. For now, anyway. 

Ford’s hands press on your waist, all twelve fingers holding onto you like a vice and feeling every muscle twitch in response to him; you tighten around his dick and he grips harder, timing nicely with a suddenly deeper thrust that makes your back arch off the bed. Even so, you can tell he’s tiring himself out up there— and his legs might give out with the exertion. Fucking is hard work, after all. 

You take his hands and pull at him until he climbs onto the bed over you. He readjusts himself until he’s in a good balance and you take a moment to cup his face, looking him in the eye before you kiss him (your concern over his knees had ulterior motives, if you’re honest). Ford hums into it and gets back to work; you can tell he’s close. Fast, but not unanticipated. He must know this himself, as he manages to fandangle a hand between your legs to help catch you up to speed. For all that talk of his many fingers, he knows how to use them— or, at least, he’s good at reading which of your noises sound the most blissed out and works to keep those ones going. He works a charm, but needs both arms to balance over you as he sorts himself out, so you reach down and finish the job for yourself, warmth building in the pit of your stomach that spreads through your body as your voice gives out with a squeak. Apparently seeing you come (and the knowledge that he helped that happen) is enough to push Ford off the edge, too, as he pulls out and neatly comes into his hand, saving you from any stickiness. 

What a gentleman, you murmur after you catch your breath, and Ford laughs, wiping his palm off with a tissue.

“Least I could do. Now, ah, to actually wash this off—”

Before he gets out the door you hop up and tilt his head to meet you in the middle, kissing the corner of his mouth and eliciting a startled “hmm?” from him. You don’t pull too far away before you tell him that next time, you might have a few things to try out, if he’s up for it. Once you meet his gaze, you find Ford’s flushed cherry red as he emphatically nods, stammering something like “Yes! That would be— _I_ would be— Yes. If you’ll, um, excuse me.”

He strides out with surprising purpose into the hallway and nearly thwacks headfirst into the open bathroom door, fumbling to close it as you laugh, fondly shaking your head.

The student becomes the teacher.


End file.
